


Strings of Fate

by daring_elm



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Aromantic Morality | Patton Sanders, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Mind Manipulation, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Teenage Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Teenage Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Trans Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Trans Morality | Patton Sanders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daring_elm/pseuds/daring_elm
Summary: The kingdom of Rosenburg was a harmonious one—the Collector made sure of that. But the Collector isn't here anymore. In his place are his two teenage doppelgangers, Roman and Remus, both confused, both scared and neither of them suited to rule a kingdom, especially now that the citizens are no longer under the Collector's control.The two princes set out to find the force that caused them to split, but neither of them would have expected the difficulties their path holds.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, platonic DRLAMP
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	1. The Collector

**Author's Note:**

> yaaay, new au!! i've been planning this one for a w h i l e and only just got around to writing it—i do hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> warnings for chapter one: sickness, spiders, cursing, lots of angst, the split happens and the king is positive he's gonna die

The kingdom of Rosenburg was a harmonious one—the Collector made sure of that. It was a lovely, busy town, surrounded by the deep, dark forest in the east and wide farmlands to the west. The sun always shone, and yet crops never withered and rivers never ran dry; humans and animals alike never had to fear thirst. The people were as happy as they could be, and if they were sad, they weren't aware of it.

The Collector had captured magic, brought order to untamable beasts and forced even the most corrupt characters to perform his will until his kingdom was perfect. Every movement in the town below the castle was like clockwork, every tap of every finger and every breeze flying through the air as calculated as if it had been written in code beforehand. His townsfolk were faultlessly performing characters bound in a rhythm it took the Collector half his life to build, and now that he had them all bound, he could enjoy the peace his characters brought him.

* * *

With a deep sigh, the Collector stepped inside, the balcony door falling shut behind him and the lock turning without anyone having to touch either of them. He smiled at the way his cloak swung while he spun on his heel before leaving the library, grabbing a storybook on his way out. The threads in  _ Rapunzel _ had been coming loose.

The hallway was bustling with servants, not one giving him a glance or a thought while they carried out their routine. The Collector didn't mind, of course—they had long since faded into background noise, mindless obstacles controlled by the shining strings wrapped around their wrists and tethering them to the system. He wove his way through the group of cooks, who were making their way towards the kitchens to prepare supper, then stopped on the staircase, one foot already set on the marble step ahead of him, when his rhythm was interrupted by a voice.

"Your Majesty!" Logan called. He too avoided the servants as he rushed after the Collector, sparing them a glance—his eyes resting on their enchanted bracelets for a moment too long—before continuing to push through, bowing hastily as he arrived.

"Logan?" The Collector smiled at him. Though Logan was more of a butler than a friend, he was the only character the Collector hadn't bound—being entirely surrounded by robotic figures would have been dreadfully dull after all, and he needed someone to play chess with, to talk to and (most importantly) recognize his creation for the masterpiece it was. Though he didn't like to admit it to himself, the Collector was nothing if not vain.

"I was wondering about your plans for this evening. I believe we have an unsettled chess match from yesterday for me to win?" Logan's smile, however hesitant, was shining with mischief. He adjusted the spectacles perched on his nose despite them not having fallen in the slightest since the last time he had done so.

The Collector laughed (the sound carried a melody it took him quite some practice to perfect), taking pleasure in the blush that immediately formed on Logan's cheeks.  _ How embarrassing _ . "We'll see who the true victor shall be. In the meantime…" He held up the book in his hand and Logan jumped, nodding hastily.

"Of course, your Majesty." He bowed. "Apologies for taking up your time."

The Collector shook his head. "I'll see you at dinner." And with those words, he turned on his heel and, with his cloak swishing behind him, continued his path.

* * *

No matter how often he saw it, the story room remained overwhelming. The window at the very top of the dome was just enough to make dots of light reflect off the golden plot webs and dance over the mosaics, illuminating each image on the curved walls. His eyes wandered over  _ Cinderella _ , briefly resting on  _ Snow White _ —he had reset those threads recently; the background characters had become unruly—and sweeping over the scene of the trickster in  _ The Three Brothers _ before they settled on  _ Rapunzel _ .

Leafing through the book in his hand, the Collector pulled a golden thread from his wrist and attached it to the prince's knot. He tightened the string holding the princess in her role, pulling at it, then smiling when it snapped back into place with a melodic hum.

* * *

_ Rapunzel had been feeling odd recently. One déjà vu after the other followed her through the day. She had doubts: In her mother, in the prince coming to rescue her, in herself. Looking in the mirror was strange, and she felt detached, almost, as if the body she saw wasn't her own. This wasn't her story, not really. _

_ Her memory faded in strange places—there were days, sometimes weeks she didn't remember. She hadn't tried to remember before, but she didn't know when her thoughts last were her own. _

_ Rapunzel's vision was blurred. She had a faint image of round, thick glasses in her mind, the kind that got tangled in the short hair she had then, before it had grown to the tower-length it was now. She had never thought about needing glasses before. The memories she had looked like someone was watching from afar, gazing down on the happenings as if seeing a play. Their vision was fine, but when Rapunzel saw for herself, she had trouble seeing much of anything. _

_ Rapunzel didn't know who she was, but she wasn't sure she fit the role she was meant to play. She— _

_ Rapunzel brushed her hair. She heard Mother's call from the foot of the tower. She stood up to let down her hair. Mother climbed up. Mother brushed Rapunzel's hair. Mother felt safe. _

_ Rapunzel didn't remember her confusion anymore. _

* * *

" _Ah!_ " Biting pain surged through the Collector's head and he stumbled backwards, holding a hand to his forehead. "What the hell?" His vision swam, and he had to hold onto the wall to stay upright.

_ This is wrong what are you doing you’re hurting them this isn’t right _

_ You’re restricting them stop hiding you coward stop it stop it stop it now _

He shook his head, which only led to another spike in pain. An array of voices surrounded him; whispers that were just faint enough that he couldn't make out a single word echoed through the room and bounced off the golden threads making up his spider-web stories everywhere in the dome. He winced.

Digging his nails into his palm to distract from the pain tearing his head apart, the Collector stumbled towards the door—he nearly fell over the web of  _ The Little Match Girl _ , cursing as a side character's thread came loose. The absent-minded wave of his hand wasn't enough to fasten it perfectly, and he cursed again (and significantly louder this time) when the knot slid down on the thread it was fastened to, disrupting the plot. He couldn't deal with this.

The door took twice the usual effort to open, and the Collector found his breath growing heavy—but the soothing darkness of the candle-lit hallway took some of his headache away. He let  _ Rapunzel _ fall on a table with a low thump, wincing when the noise reverbed in his head.

A door opened to his right and Logan stepped out from behind it, a poorly concealed smile making his eyes sparkle. "Your Majesty, I wasn't expecting you back so—oh." His face fell. "My King, are you alright?"

"Fine, just—fine." The Collector massaged his temples. "I will be retiring to my quarters early tonight—no need to wait for me."

"Oh." Logan's shoulders dropped, his eyes averting themselves before refocusing on the Collector. "Is there anything I can bring you?"

"Lavender tea." The Collector had already turned on his heel, leaving a worried and confused Logan behind.

* * *

The Collector woke up. His head was throbbing, and he bit his lip to suppress a whine at the ache that only got worse while his vision adjusted to the darkness. On his nightstand was a cup of cold tea with three untouched sugar cubes beside it. Next to it was a note with handwriting he couldn't quite decipher in the low light and a sketch of a chess piece—the king. The Collector smiled.

While Logan wasn't a very creative artist, he was a precise one, and his small doodles made warmth blossom in the Collector's heart where there hadn't been any in a long time. The paper tethered the Collector to reality just long enough to distract from the cacophony of thoughts in his mind, each one a vortex of whispers dragging him down to the two voices screaming at each other in the depths of his brain.

_ You need to keep them safe they'll be hurt or killed what are you even saying _

_ You don't care about them in the slightest you perfectionist asshole you're holding us back _

The Collector gritted his teeth. His room felt small, too small to bear, crowded with thoughts like paper balls crowding every corner, every free surface, piling up in massive towers of failed ideas and dysfunctional plans. He had to get out.

He stepped into the hallway, only noticing his dress (almost embarrassingly basic nightclothes) when his cape didn't swish after him as he turned around corners, his feet undoubtedly leading him to the story room. Though he didn't know why he was headed there—it was where all of this had started, after all—he kept going. Maybe following their orders would make the whispers stop.

The story room had never looked this bleak. The brilliant shine of the webs stretching all over the dome had faded to a dull grey, and the mosaics' colours were muted, the smatterings of tiles absorbing the warm glow of the lanterns in hallway that was only barely obstructed by the Collector standing in the doorframe. No moonlight, not a single star shone in from the crystalline window at the top that had always fulfilled its purpose of showering the brilliant chamber in specks of kaleidoscopic light.

The Collector shuddered. And yet he set a foot inside, then another, continuing to walk forward until he was in the middle of the room. Making him jump with less of a start than he would have on any other occasion, the door slammed shut.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Collector saw spiders climbing through his webs. Hundreds and hundreds of spiders scurried from every nook the room allowed such a creature to hide in, each of them watching him with eight hungry eyes, pondering how quickly he would become their next meal. Their whispering thoughts; the clicking of spindly legs against his beautiful, intricate webs; all that just added to the cacophonic blizzard in his mind. He knew they were an illusion; every creature in his kingdom was under his control. There were no spiders in the castle. There were spiders in Rapunzel's tower; there were spiders in the woods surrounding the hut of the seven dwarves. There were no spiders in the castle. This was an illusion.

That didn't make it less terrifying, though.

A sharp pain in his stomach made the Collector double over, sinking to his knees. The voices screamed. The voices screamed. The voices screamed.

_ LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT _

_ LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT _

The Collector's vision faded to black.

* * *

Roman was the first to awake. He didn't remember being on the floor of this room, surrounded by black and white strings and shattered tiles. He didn't remember _ being _ altogether.

Above him was a window—the only one in the room. Its crystal cut distorted the faint sunlight (it had to be early in the morning), but the sunlight was streaming in nonetheless. Roman stood up and he was shorter than he would have thought. He didn't have a beard, which was unfamiliar for a reason he wasn't quite sure of. He didn't remember having a beard, but then again, he didn't remember much at all.

Roman looked around and he saw shards of pottery that had to have been brilliant, once—their colours still shone in every shade of the rainbow as the light touched down on them. He saw dozens, if not hundreds of threads, each of them fallen limply to the ground (he had a faint memory of golden webs in a room similar to this one, but it could impossibly be the same)—each one was either pitch black, dark enough that if he tried to focus on it for too long, it looked like there was nothing there, or a blank white, so immaculate it was practically shining with radiant light.

Then he saw someone stretched out next to him. A boy, fifteen, maybe sixteen years of age, dressed in a nightgown just as black as the threads around him. Roman reached out to shake him awake and just a glance at the boy's face revealed marks—bruises, it seemed—around his eyes, a grey streak in his hair that seemed oddly familiar for a reason Roman couldn't quite grasp and the beginning of a moustache represented by fine, dark hairs above his upper lip. He grabbed the boy's shoulder, cautiously shaking him. "Please wake up," he muttered.

* * *

Remus was the second to awake. His mind was a blur, his eyes struggling to focus on the boy above him—he was fifteen, maybe sixteen years of age—shaking him up.

The boy was dressed in a white nightgown that contrasted his otherwise near flawless appearance, baby-faced and well put together (fuck, was that  _ makeup _ ?) in a way old ladies would call charming. Remus averted his eyes.

The ground was covered in pieces of broken ceramic, each a different but equally bright colour, and black and white strings that looked like they had all colour forcibly drained from them to make up for the brilliance of the shards around them. The moment the boy saw Remus' eyes open, he let go with a start, and Remus fell to the ground again.

"Ow!" Remus grimaced, scrambling to get on his feet. The boy stood up with him. They were the same height (though it was a bit shorter than Remus remembered), and as he looked up to the window, he saw his face was nearly identical to the boy's. The boy frowned at him, then looked up as well, his eyes widening briefly.

He cleared his throat. "I—you're  _ me _ ," the boy said. "You were me, or  _ I _ was me—I think."

Remus slowly shook his head. He took a step back, and his eyes swept over the boy. He looked familiar in a way that Remus couldn't think about without feeling like he was trying to catch smoke, each idea dissipating in his hands. A vision of a past life, maybe, though that past life could have just as well been minutes ago.

"I'm not," Remus said, for the lack of anything better. He shook his head again, with more force this time. "I'm Remus. I—" His voice broke, and he was surprised to find his first thought was ' _ not again _ '. "I don't know who I am—but I'm not you. I think."

The boy nodded. "I'm Roman." He smiled and held out his hand. "We'll figure it out."


	2. A Tale of Two Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: manipulation, stockholm syndrome-y stuff, cursing, brief violence, alcohol & underage drinking, talk of death

To say that Logan was anxious was an understatement.

His Majesty hadn't appeared for breakfast. He hadn't been in his chambers—the tea Logan had set out yesterday went untouched, but his note was gone. Logan wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

His Majesty  _ had _ seemed ill yesterday—he had been asleep as Logan entered, muttering to himself, and Logan tread as softly as he could out of fear of disturbing him. The King would have been angry—or worse, disappointed—and Logan didn't want to make a nuisance of himself when his Majesty was already distressed.

Distress had always been difficult to read on the King's features. He hid everything behind a calculating smile, behind a perfect appearance, behind faultless behaviour and minuscule taunts that made Logan's heart rush. He had always been too good to him, too good  _ for _ him, and Logan only owed it to him to care for his every wish—and if the only payment was a life as something between a friend and a servant, being close but never close enough to satisfy the tingling in his fingertips or the blush in his cheeks, that would be enough for Logan.

But now his Majesty was gone, and Logan felt himself rapidly approaching a panic attack. He wouldn't  _ leave _ , would he? Where could he even go?

An idiotic question, Logan reprimanded his thoughts. He could go anywhere he pleased and beyond that—he could borrow minds and bodies and live through those, if he so desired. (Logan, however secret he had to keep the feeling, had pity on those who had their body borrowed. He had experienced it once, when the King was still testing the limits of his magic. While the mind control itself was unpleasant but numbing, the outright loss of control made him want to vomit. He had retreated to his room after his Majesty had been satisfied and spent several hours crying as if it would help him regain control over a vessel that had, for just a few minutes, not been his, and nearly a year after wishing he hadn't done so.) The King could be anywhere, and yet, he usually left a note if he planned to disappear.

The King's disappearance wasn't the only one, it seemed. None of the other servants were in the halls, in the kitchen,  _ anywhere _ . Logan couldn't say the fact was displeasing—he didn't enjoy being around them, their expressions blank as paper in a way that made him feel sick to his stomach. It was still concerning, and it still sent another wave of panic into his rapidly flooding mind.

What if he had been left behind? What if his Majesty had made them all disappear, then left without saying, without even a note—and left him  _ all alone _ —

Logan shook his head. He was being irrational. The King wouldn't do such a thing. He perhaps didn't feel as strongly about Logan as Logan did about him, but they at least had a basis of mutual respect. He shouldn't worry.

He continued walking through the barren hallway, forcing his steps to slow into a steady rhythm. There was only one place left he had to check.

Logan hadn't been in the story room for years, and never without the King present. But, he thought as he set his hand on the door, he was willing to risk any punishment if it meant finding his King again.

* * *

The door opened and Remus screeched, letting go of Roman. Roman jumped at the sudden noise, but not as much as the man in the entrance, who let go of the door as if it had burned him. He looked as if he was about to faint.

Roman took a curious step forward and the strange man took one back, which made Roman halt. He eyed the man over as he seemed to be struggling for air. "Who  _ are _ you?" he finally asked, his voice raspy.

Remus glanced at him with a puzzled frown, as if it were somehow obvious. "Remus," he said, and then Roman noticed he had seen this man before, many times, even. He had laughed with him, played games, dined with him more times than he could count. But this hadn't been  _ him _ , it had been— Roman dug in those memories, trying to find one he could grasp, could press more information from, but they all faded as he thought about them in even the slightest detail.

One remained, though, a word, a name— "Logan," Roman said before he thought about it himself. "That's you."

Logan was absolutely petrified, white as a ghost and his hands clenched into tight fists. He nodded.

"I'm Roman." Roman took another step in Logan's direction, Remus following behind him, but Logan didn't flinch away this time. "Do you know why we're here?"

Logan shook his head. "You look like—"

"We know. We're twins, we think—right?" Remus gave Roman a glance, and Roman nodded.

"No, no—" Logan adjusted his glasses nervously. "You look like the King. You must be—" He furrowed his brow, then shook his head, which Roman took to mean he hadn't the faintest clue who they must be. "I'm sorry, I must—is this a dream?"

Remus slapped him in the face. Roman gasped and Logan doubled over, his glasses askew. "Is it a dream?" Remus asked.

"I—" Logan coughed timidly and set his glasses back on his nose. "I believe not." His voice was shaky, as if he were about to cry.

Roman gave his brother (Remus  _ was _ his brother, then) a scandalised glare, then pushed him aside. Logan glanced at Roman, at this  _ boy _ who stood in front of him in a nightgown, his face exactly like the King's as they first met but his brown eyes softer than his Majesty's had ever been. "Come in, please," he told Logan and Logan felt compelled to obey. They passed a ring of shattered tiles and loose string that had fallen around the room and sat in the middle, where the small window was just above them. The sunlight made Roman's eyes glow a warm amber, and though he was so  _ young _ and so deeply confusing, Logan couldn't help but trust him. Remus sat down cross-legged, his black nightgown falling loosely around him, and Roman folded his legs under him neatly.

"Sit," Remus said, and Logan did so. "What is this place?" The glint in his eyes wasn't as warm as Roman's, but never as cold as the King's. He pulled a loose thread from the seam of his sleeve and began twisting it around his finger.

And so Logan told them. He told them everything he knew, everything about his Majesty, about the magic with which he controlled the kingdom, about his tasks. He told them about the webs—unable to avoid an anxious glance to the black and white threads around the room—and about the stories they told.

He told fairy tales, the few he could remember, and then Remus interrupted him to continue the story himself, with an excited glimmer in his eyes that made something deep in Logan's heart soften. Roman told the next, and then Remus told another with Roman correcting him in small places when his story got too grim. Logan struggled with having to tell them to stop; after all, they had to find out what happened to the town, to all the people that usually roamed the castle and were no longer there.

As they left the story room (the princes, as Logan had decided to call them, needed something proper to wear), Logan's eye caught two pieces of paper on the ground. One of them was folded neatly, the other balled up, and when he unfolded them, he found his own art looking back at him. Each drawing portrayed a pawn, one black and one white, in a style that was inarguably his own. Logan couldn't help but be reminded of the sketch of the king piece he had given his Majesty just the night before.

There still wasn't enough proof (and that was disregarding the absolute nonsense of his theory), but it seemed the King had split into these two teenagers. The only logical point of action now was to figure out how to get them back together.

* * *

It turned out the princes were capable of the King's magic, and not only that, but they were deeply attuned to it—it was a matter of minutes until Remus had figured out simple threading magic, enough to make himself the most horrid outfit Logan had ever laid his eyes on. Roman followed immediately after, but luckily his clothing turned out to be less of a dark tulle monstrosity (there were  _ teeth _ on Remus' coat,  _ human teeth _ ). The only difference to his Majesty's magic was the colour of the string—Roman's thread was such a radiant white Logan couldn't bear to look directly at it, and Remus' was so dark that when Logan turned to see it, it looked like there was nothing there.

"May I see?" Logan asked Roman. Roman laid the string in his cupped palm, and while Logan had to squint to see it properly, the light didn't hurt him. He turned it back and forth, twisted it and tugged at it lightly, then let it fall into Remus' hand as he held it out.

Remus jerked back with a scream and the thread dropped to the floor. He pressed his thumb against his palm, where a thin, red line was forming. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck  _ fuck _ !" he wailed.

"Are you okay?" Roman asked at the same time that Logan blurted "What happened?"

"It burned me!" Remus held out his hand, and indeed, a burn mark stretched across the width of his palm.

Logan frowned. "I could touch it without any issue." He chewed on his lip for a moment. "Remus, may I have one of your strings?"

Remus glanced at him warily, but complied. Again, the thread didn't feel like anything it wasn't supposed to—perhaps this one had more of a silky feel, and it was certainly off-putting to hold something made of pure darkness, but it didn't hurt him in the slightest. Logan glanced at Roman, whose face had taken on a worrying expression.

"I want to touch it."

" _ Absolutely _ not." Logan closed his hand around the darkness.

"Give it to me, I want to touch it." Roman was pouting, but there was something discomforting in his features, if only for a second. Without thinking, Logan held out his hand and Roman took the thread between his thumb and index finger.

His yell made Logan snap out of his trance. He caught the black string before it fell, catching a glimpse of Roman's fingertips, which had gone blue. " _ Ow _ !"

"Do you see why I refused to let you touch it?" Logan couldn't help his biting tone, but he tried to soften it with a sigh. "What did it feel like?"

"Ice," Roman said through clenched teeth. "Really cold and numb." He shifted uncomfortably. "Can we go?"

Logan glanced at the window. The sun was still rising, with no clouds there to obstruct its path. The weather was kind to them, but it was still up to speculation if the townsfolk would be. "Of course."

* * *

The village was loud and teeming with life, and all three of them seemed equally surprised to find it as such. People were singing and dancing in the streets, embracing one another, and only a handful of folks weren't holding alcohol of some kind. Roman, who had been clutching his injured hand with a grimace seemed to loosen up, a smile creeping onto his face. He bumped into Remus slightly, and his twin grinned back at him.

A woman pushed past Logan, nearly elbowing him in the chest, then stopped in front of them. She had the build of a wardrobe, with one large beer glass in each hand (one of which was filled with something significantly too dark to be beer) and was shining with all the force of a wildfire. "C'mon, join the party!" she said, and took a swig from the not-beer glass. Logan smelled brandy on her breath as she continued: "Whole town's celebratin'!"

Logan cleared his throat. "And why is that exactly?"

She seemed confused for a moment, then rolled her eyes with a smile and drank from the beer glass. "King's dead, of course! Or gone at least, we dunno yet." The woman passed the not-beer glass to Remus, who took an enthusiastic sip, then gagged only barely managing not to spit the burning liquid out. He passed it to Roman and his brother quickly followed suit.

Incredulously, Logan looked back and forth between the three of them. He couldn't imagine there being such a spectacle because his Majesty had disappeared—they all hadn't known him; they didn't understand the loss. They didn't understand that they needed him, that  _ Logan _ needed him. Who was this barmaid anyway, handing out brandy to these children?

"And all you're lights or darks, anyway?" she asked, as if there was an obvious answer to the question she posed.

"Hm?" Roman said from behind the rim of the glass—he could drink a bit faster now that he had gotten used to the sting. He handed the not-beer to Remus.

"Yer strings—white or black?"

"Oh. White." Roman gestured to his outfit—goodness, he was feeling a bit light-headed. The ground wasn't quite swaying, but he did feel uncomfortably wobbly. Perhaps the woman was a witch, because whatever that potion was, it made him feel warm and giggly, but definitely light-headed.

"Black," Remus said, then made a sound of protest when the barmaid ripped the glass from his hands.

The excited warmth in her eyes had died down to something more akin to wet coal. "Enjoy the party," she said coolly, then walked off.

Logan tsked. "Pay no mind to her." Roman made a noise of agreement behind him—or was it Remus? One of the two. "We need to figure out a solution to this… situation."

"Why?" Roman was leaning on Remus now, their hands intertwined. They didn't seem to have an issue with touching each other, despite the harm their magic caused to their respective twins.

"Well…" Logan's voice went quieter. "We need his Majesty back. And for that, we need to put you back together." Neither of them protested, but they didn't seem particularly delighted. Logan sighed and turned back to the road. "I just need to figure out how."

"Excuse me?" a tiny voice said from behind him, and Logan turned to find a figure shorter than the twins, even, with long, blonde hair (even in a braid the tips nearly brushed over the ground) and thick glasses. "You said you want to get the king back, right?"

Logan nodded slowly. "That is correct. Why?"

"My name's Patton," they said after some hesitation. "I want to help."


	3. Rapunzel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: manipulation; dissociation; dysphoria; dubious consent (brief mention); alcohol (brief mention)

Patton squinted at the sun shining down on eir face. Eir glasses caught the light, reflecting it from next to the near-empty basket, from which Patton blindly fished another yellow plum and popped it in eir mouth. The air smelled of blooming flowers and fresh cherry pie and something that conveyed the absolute certainty that summer was here to stay.

Patton's birthday was only days away and e couldn't wait to see the surprise party eir friends were planning and hiding from em as terribly as they always did. E didn't mind knowing, though—pretending to be surprised at their ideas every time never stopped being fun (e was already excited for the sunniest solstice sleepover of the year, with games and gifts e had caught through hushed giggles and notes e had to pretend to not have seen).

E smiled at the thought. Summer really was the best time of year, and not just because eir birthday was right at the beginning of it. Eir freckles had returned to their full glory over the spring months, e had finally managed to dig out eir old sundresses and eir blond curls were finally short enough that e didn't resemble a mop now that Dorothy cut them (she also added a pink tint to the tips with beet juice, which Patton was sure would last significantly longer than it was technically supposed to—but it was no secret that the ladies next door were witches).

Sighing contentedly, e closed eir eyes, basking in the sun for one more moment. No matter what the future had in store, no matter how many more autumns and winters would come, for now it was summer and that was what Patton kept in mind as e dozed off, grass tickling the side of eir face and gently swaying in the soft breeze blowing through the garden.

* * *

It was the day of Patton's eighteenth birthday, and e couldn't have imagined a better one if e tried. E was wearing the brand new dress that had been at eir bed this morning and it flew as e spun in eir dance with Terrence, who laughed as he was spun around next. All of them—Patton, eir friends, eir family and those who were close enough to be considered the latter—were filled to the brim with cakes and pies of all sorts, and were now dancing, singing, or at least clapping along to the music playing. Patton laughed and danced until e was light-headed and had to sit down in the soft grass of eir back yard.

It was late in the afternoon, but the sun showed no sign of setting, not a single cloud darkening the sky. Patton closed eir eyes, enjoying the music from Dad's lute, the singing of everyone who had the breath to do so, the (more or less) rhythmic drumming of dancing feet on the grass and hands clapping along. Eir life certainly hadn't been miserable so far, but in this moment, e couldn't imagine a happier time.

And then the sky darkened. E opened eir eyes as the music ended in the cacophonic way music usually ended when everyone involved did so on their own time, glancing over at the source of the commotion. The summer day hadn't cooled down, but the sight of the tall stranger at the gateway still made Patton shudder.

"Show yourself!" Larry demanded. The stranger stepped into the light, and despite the clouds covering the heavens, the golden embellishments on his grey cloak shone like they were spun from sunbeams. "What do you want here?" she said, then the stranger flicked his wrist at her and she didn't say anything anymore.

Patton jumped to eir feet, holding out eir hand behind em as if it would provide eir friends with any cover. The stranger smiled. "Who are you?" Patton asked. The man was dressed like royalty and towered above em by at least a head, maybe more, but Patton was determined to not let eir intimidation show. "You weren't invited."

No one moved aside from the stranger. Patton glanced at Larry—she seemed to have fallen into a deep trance, a soft smile on her face, and Dorothy was staring at her wife with horror in her eyes. The stranger wasn't a witch, e didn't think—Patton had only ever known kind witches, and wasn't willing to believe there were exceptions to that rule—but he was in some way magical. He  _ had _ to be magical, with the way he moved as if he was made from shadows, with whatever curse he had placed on one of the best witches Patton knew, with his cruel smile that made Patton absolutely sure he couldn't be entirely human.

The stranger stepped forward nonchalantly, not paying Patton's question or the eyes on him any mind, until he stood right in front of em. Patton's heart was racing. E looked into the stranger's eyes—they were chocolate brown, but as warm as ice and as friendly as a charging snake. "Rapunzel," he said.

Patton opened eir mouth to scream.

Then he reached out and brushed through one of eir pink curls and Patton didn't feel like screaming anymore. "Welcome to your fate."

* * *

Rapunzel felt the sun shining down on her face. It was summer. Outside her tower stood a tall plum tree that was loaded with ripe fruit. Mother always promised her that she would bring some back, but she never remembered and shouted when Rapunzel asked about them. Rapunzel learned not to ask anymore.

She didn't mind, though. This was where she was comfortable, with or without fruit or trees or sun or company. Mother told her that she must be happy, so she was. Rapunzel was happy.

Rapunzel looked out of the window, her eyes following the swallows swooping down from the sky. She spent most of her time watching the outside world (even though her view never changed) and waiting, be it for Mother or for the prince. She hadn't met the prince yet, not in this story, but she already knew he was coming.

Rapunzel didn't care much for the prince. She didn't believe his promises—how could she, when she knew how the story ended?—and she disliked his kisses. His tongue felt foreign in her mouth, his hands intrusive on her waist, in her hair, under her skirt, in her blouse—

She was meant to love the prince. She was meant to find joy in kissing him. She was meant to delight when he visited and wilt when he left, but she didn't. Rapunzel was starting to think she wasn't meant to feel after all.

Rapunzel knew how her story went. She would do as she was told; she would sing so the prince heard her and let him up when he called. She would let him do what he wanted, guard their secret from Mother until she found out anyway and leave when she was told to.

She knew how her story went; she had lived through it enough times to know that she didn't get the happy ending that was written out for her. She knew what would happen, and still she performed. She couldn't do anything else. This was what she was meant to do, and so she waited and watched and sang in the hope, in the knowledge that the prince would hear her someday.

Rapunzel didn't worry about the future. She wasn't scared; she couldn't be. Mother had told her she must be happy, and so she was. Rapunzel didn't worry. She contemplated, and she theorised, and she wondered what would happen if she didn't sing the day the prince came by and then she ended up singing anyway.

Rapunzel didn't mind her fate. It was just something to think about while she watched the birds fly.

* * *

Rapunzel was in her tower when it happened. She was braiding her hair, the way she always did once the prince had left. She was looking forward to seeing the birds outside her window again—they had built a nest under the roof, close enough that she could watch them, but far enough that they weren't scared by her presence.

She twisted the strands of hair in her hands. The golden strings knotted in them became something she didn't question, barely even noticed as she continued to braid. She brushed over one of the glittering threads, gently, as if it would break if she were too harsh.

The strings broke.

They turned white and fell around her in pieces just as she tied a ribbon around the bottom of the braid, shattered, as if they were made of cracked glass that someone had put too much pressure on. They were so light Rapunzel couldn't look at them directly, so spotlessly, perfectly white. Rapunzel's hand caught in her hair, combing through it as if she couldn't believe the golden threads weren't there anymore.

And then she wasn't Rapunzel anymore.

She stood up from the chair she was sitting on and almost instantly fell back—her knees didn't feel strong enough to hold her upright, and she was  _ hurt _ , how didn't she notice the pain before? Red-hot searing pain stretched from her temples to her back down her legs and she felt like she might faint. She looked in the mirror, hoping, praying it would hold the answer she needed as to why Rapunzel didn't feel like herself anymore. She looked in the mirror, and the face staring back at her wasn't her own.

She looked just as she remembered, just as she had seen herself hundreds of times before, but something wasn't  _ right _ —her vision was blurred, but even though her eyes couldn't settle for long enough to see their own colour (could she even remember her own eye colour?), there was something so, so  _ wrong _ about the body she was in. Her chest wasn't flat like it was supposed to be. Her hips were too wide and the dress she was wearing only made things worse—this was her, it was undoubtedly her, but it wasn't. It couldn't be.

Rapunzel looked at herself and it fe lt wro ng sh e wa sn' tre al itw as a ll g one P att on was n't r ealt hi sw as wr o ng e wasd y in g h el p

* * *

The town was cleaner since Patton had last been there, but the people in the streets seemed hell-bent on changing that. E briefly made eye contact with a man who stared ahead stone-faced while he dumped a bowlful of kitchen waste onto the street before his house, and Patton lifted eir braid a little higher to be entirely sure it wouldn't drag on the ground. All around em, people were drinking and shouting and singing, and Patton had to admit it was almost unsettling to witness.

Eir memory was clouded and all over the place, memories from eir time as Rapunzel mixing in with the time before. E couldn't properly distinguish what e was feeling—eir mind was stuck between processing the constant new impressions the world had to offer and processing the past e hadn't known until just now, and it was causing a throbbing pain in the back of eir head. Eir arms were crossed in front of eir chest—e hated, hated,  _ hated _ that it was so visible, that eir dress was so tight. E had a faint memory of a pale blue sundress e liked, a lot even, but e didn't know if that was Rapunzel's memory or eir own.

A man sitting on the ground in front of a tavern wolf-whistled and e shrunk deeper into eir dress, avoiding looking too closely as the woman next to him laughed venomously.

All e knew was that something had happened to the king, something terrible—that was what everyone was celebrating. It seemed cruel. Then again, the king made all of this happen, right? Maybe it was for the better. Patton kept walking, eir hair hanging over eir shoulder as e stopped paying attention to it. E missed the comfortable numbness being Rapunzel offered—it was less pain, less fear, less confusion. 

E walked past a tall man and two teenagers just as the man said something about getting his Majesty back and Patton's heart skipped. While he didn't seem too convinced about the method, the man seemed absolutely certain the king could return, and that was enough for Patton. E wanted to help, but how? Could e just walk up and—

"Excuse me?" Patton said before e even realised, and e cursed how small eir voice sounded. Nevertheless, e continued. "You said you want to get the king back, right?"

The teenagers—twins, Patton noticed, and e was sure e had seen them somewhere before—were both staring at em curiously. The one in the white outfit glanced at the man while he spoke, but the one in the dark coat ( _ was that an eyeball on his shoulder? _ ) didn't take his eyes off em. His gaze was just a bit unsettling, sending a shiver down Patton's spine. Still, e smiled. The boy didn't return the gesture.

"My name's Patton," e said, surveying the confusion, then realisation on the man's face. "I want to help."

**Author's Note:**

> if you read this far, please comment, and support my fic on [tumblr](https://daring-elm.tumblr.com/post/611297479679426560/strings-of-fate) as well!!


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